


Bound To War In Times Of Peace

by allthebeautifulthings9828



Series: Bound To War [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Victorian, American Civil War, Angst and Porn, Civil War, Dom/sub, Dominant Castiel, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Gentle Dom Castiel, Historical, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Castiel, Light Bondage, Love, M/M, Military, Military Castiel, Military Dean, Military Kink, Military Uniforms, POV Dean Winchester, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Dean Winchester, Romance, Romantic Angst, Rope Bondage, Secret Relationship, Sex, Smut, Spanking, Sub Dean, Uniform Kink, Uniforms, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, destiel au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebeautifulthings9828/pseuds/allthebeautifulthings9828
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Civil War draws to an end, Major Dean Winchester and General Castiel Novak must adjust to the new conditions of peacetime life. Castiel takes Dean home to New York City where they can blend in as a pair of men in love easier than they could in Dean's home of Kansas. In spite of a burgeoning social life going to parties in Molly houses, places known to host men who preferred men, they live in fear every day of the illegal nature of their affair. A police raid on a popular Molly house lands Dean and Castiel in prison, a result of the meddling of Meg, the wife Castiel rejected to be with him during the war. Her taste for revenge threatens their lives. They must depend on friends like the Harvelles and Singers to set them free in a society designed to destroy same-sex love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

April 1865  
North Carolina

"Company! Wheel left!" Mounted high on Baby's saddle despite the roar of gunfire flying around him, Major Dean Winchester swung his sword over his head to direct the men eastward.

Flanking the general, Dean and a pair of adjutants kept their revolvers drawn for his protection. A row of four horses led the company against a screaming horde of barefoot, starving Confederate men in tatters of butternut and gray. He glanced Castiel's way and noted the narrowed state of his profile--a man so intent on sparing as many lives as he could that his blue eyes toon an ethereal light. A stray bullet pierced his wide-brimmed Hardee hat, flinging him to one side, but then he popped upright in the saddle again, undeterred. Dean's heart thrashed with an eruption of fear. Through the melee, Dean sheathed his sword and snatched his revolver out of the hip holster in one fluid motion, and swiftly emptied the bullets into the enemy ranks. Still, they came. Butternut and gray filled the valley as if the last of the Confederacy decided to die rather than surrender.

"I cannot see the rest of the brigade," Castiel told them as he peered through his spyglass.

"We must get out of here, sir," replied Dean, twisting in his saddle for a view of the enemy surrounding their position.

"I will not leave my men!" the general boomed.

"Your men won't have a leader if you don't seek safety now!" shot back Dean.

Challenging his commanding officer on the open field of battle stunned the two adjutants into blank stares there on their mounts. As for Castiel himself, flashing blue eyes bore into Dean with a warning to remember his place in public or he would be punished for it in private. Dean remained stern in his saddle, unwavering when it came to Castiel's life. There had been too many close calls. Too many moments of fearing their lives together ended with a stray bullet or the swing of an enemy sword. He knew his job, indeed. His position was that of protection and that was what he lived for, breathed for, and died for if it was required of him.

"Retreat," came Castiel's single order.

It came through his eyes. Dean won the battle between them in that moment but their private rules of engagement were strict. There would be atonement.

*****

The life of a soldier was marked by days or even weeks of boredom punctuated by a few moments of abject terror. In the days that followed another pointless slaughter, Dean waited for Castiel's atonement but it never came. Was it never to come? Had Castiel grown bored with their lover's games? Or had the war taken too much of a toll on both of them, rendering those games as pointless as the combat they were designed to distract them from?

But Dean couldn't have been more wrong. Four days after the fighting when the last of the ambulance wagon trains departed for Washington, Castiel beckoned him into his room under the guise of discussing new places to camp the boys. They'd been staying in an abandoned plantation big house while the boys camped in the fields and the old slave quarters. The minute he shut the door behind him, though, Castiel's intense blue eyes darkened and a surge of electricity coursed through Dean's body. He realized the general had been playing mind games with him, letting him believe no atonement would come, which made the moment arrive with a far more wicked punch.

"Strip, Major," he ordered evenly.

"--We have work--"

"--I said strip." Castiel's brows lifted and his voice dipped to a less than patient tone.

It was their way. Dean often resisted at first because he knew surrendering control to his lover went against everything within him. Nothing about their union was forced or hurt either of them, yet Dean met each of the games in equal parts of anxiety and arousal. As he shed the layers of his worn out blue wool uniform into a lake on the floor, he realized just how he looked forward to the anxiety as much as anything else. The sensation, the thrill, reminded him that he was indeed alive in years of navigating a perpetual river of death. Perhaps it was why Castiel played the games as well. He needed the reminders of life yet to experience.

Castiel folded his arms over his chest and leaned his weight on one foot more than the other. "Look at you," he declared. "Already rising to attention as if this is for you. Have you forgotten your disobedience, Dean? I have yet to lay a finger on you and you're already flushed and roused."

It was true. Dean's cock wasn't quite there yet but the possibilities of what could happen alone had him pulsing and rising right there under the general's watch. Naked before Castiel, he stood at attention with his heels together and his hands at his sides, staring straight ahead. He knew better than to speak without truly being asked a question. Belonging to Castiel the way he did allowed him the luxury of simply feeling without explaining every step of the way. That alone let him surrender willingly to those games, simply because he knew they were equals and they respected each other, allowing a safety net to arrive when they played in private.

"Well then." Castiel stepped closer and grasped Dean's cock with an arrogant smile. It pulsed in his fist against Dean's will, making his jaw clench. "If showing off this big boy is what you want, it's what you shall do. You shall stand at attention in every way possible for as long as I desire. If you lose your big boy, then he won't get the attention he craves."

Protest ignited Dean's green eyes for the briefest moment of defiance but he said nothing. Atonement clearly meant keeping himself on display for Castiel's amusement with only the hint of possible reward if he managed to stay hard for as long as the general required. Dean prided himself on his stamina, of course. He could go all night, and did quite frequently, but those nights also featured delicious stroking, hot wet mouths, and being fucked wildly against a headboard or a desk or wherever they got a stolen moment. Standing still while Castiel gave him no attention didn't bode well for standing rigid.

The general teased him with a few loose strokes over the entire length of his flushed cock. He kissed the tip of Dean's nose and smiled darkly before letting go. The sudden absence of a warm touch hit Dean like a cold void and he rocked on his bare feet while trying to follow those rough hands. Castiel didn't seem to notice though, and turned away, moving toward the roll-top desk that contained his possessions during their time occupying that plantation. He flicked a pair of fingers behind him in a beckoning motion that made Dean follow him in silent obedience.

Meticulously, the general searched through the desk's contents for the most up to date newspapers. He never displayed any reaction to Dean standing at attention nearby with his fists balled at his sides and his cock jutting upward in search of anything to touch. Only finding humid Carolina air, the swollen flesh pulsed and twitched in defiance as if that part of him was its own entity that demanded attention. His eyes darted down to the glistening head, already showing signs of extreme arousal. Perhaps if Castiel wasn't looking, he could just give the base a squeeze. And then drag his rough palm up along the velvety shaft. Then his thumb could circle the slick tip in just that manner to make him shudder. Down again and it'd grow thicker in his hand, encouraging him onward as--

Castiel cleared his throat and dropped in a heap into his chair with his boots crossed on the edge of the desk. The sudden motion jerked Dean out of his delicious reverie with such suddenness that he jumped. Never did the general look over at him despite being nearly eye level with quite an agitated cock. Instead, Castiel sat as easily at the desk with his feet propped up as any man reading the paper in the heat of the afternoon. It was only April but the room suddenly felt stifling. The tension itself kept Dean aroused, knowing at any second that his lover could amp up the game. His mind began to wander again to sinful images of Castiel on his knees lapping up the leaking head of Dean's cock until he exploded with a deep rumbling growl down his throat.

A hand rose from the newspaper and Castiel's first finger curled inward. Dean approached the arm of his chair without a word, his body snapping to military attention. Still, the general never looked up from his reading. Lazy fingers reached over, while his elbow rested on the chair arm, and those fingertips traced completely unsatisfying, ambling lines around the length of his flesh. Dean closed his eyes and bit his cheek to keep himself from moaning or begging for more. Hips begged to thrust forward and find harder friction but he knew better. He hadn't been given leave. As Castiel read his newspaper and toyed with Dean's cock, his hands began to tremble. He clenched his fists and listened to his shallow breath offer up a weak whimper.

And just like that, Castiel's hand moved away to turn the page. He shifted lightly in the chair as if he hadn't been teasing Dean's cock into such a state that he'd never seen himself so rigid or extended.

It went on that way for an hour, or so Dean guessed. It might have only been a few minutes but a man certainly couldn't measure time when every muscle in his body fought the urge to find some release. Slowly Castiel made his way through the newspaper, carefully reading accounts of political happenings in Washington. Every now and then a finger curled and pulled Dean in long enough to test the strength of his erect flesh. Once he traced the thick vein along the underside with his fingertips and the electrical impulses radiating through Dean's pelvis produced a stifled, trembling moan. His head tipped back and his eyes rolled toward the ceiling. For a moment he considered whether he might actually shoot blasts of sinful climax without much more than breaths of fingertips and humid Carolina air curling around him. If he let go before Castiel allowed it, there would be more atonement. Dean steeled himself and brought himself back to soldierly attention before his commanding officer had a chance to correct him.

He couldn't guarantee surviving another hour in that state though. At some point his resolve would crumble and he'd snatch up his needy cock and let his fist whip back and forth as roughly as he could stand it. Two, perhaps three strokes would do it, and he'd come with such ferocity that he'd think he was being turned inside out. Yes, that was what he thought about. Those thoughts alone made him dizzy.

"How do you fair, Dean?" asked Castiel in such an infuriatingly casual tone.

"I'm going insane," he said thickly.

"Good," replied the general. "Now do you see how well you've obeyed me? You know very well there's a reward to be had and it makes you such a good boy."

Dean nodded but didn't speak. He bit his lip and peered down at his pelvis discreetly. In truth, he couldn't stop looking at how thoroughly solid and heavy his cock had grown, yet how eagerly it curved upward to show off its smooth, shiny head. The discreet glance passed over Castiel then, and he noticed a fat bulge struggling for freedom in his blue woolen trousers. He hadn't had his legs crossed in some time and now Dean saw why. A bobbing slab of flesh just out of reach tortured him too.

Except Castiel was allowed to touch himself. He stowed the newspaper on the desk and turned his chair, facing Dean fully for the first time in more than an hour. Without the least bit of shyness, he unbuttoned his trousers and let his own fleshy pilar spring out, instantly snatched in his hand. Blue eyes turned dark and hungry as they dropped to Dean's pelvis, drinking in the sight as his fingers squeezed lightly. He sucked his lower lip between his teeth and offered a low groan. Knowing Dean's weakness for watching Castiel stroke himself seemed to be the beginning of his reward.

Blue eyes lifted to his, hazed over with desire and possibilities. "How do you want me then, Major?"

It was a true reward. Dean's body nearly collapsed in on itself with thoughts of decadence to come. Those simple words were part of the game--such a rare and treasured part--in which Castiel handed over control to him. In those instances, the tables turned and he became utterly compliant with what Dean wanted. It hadn't always been that way but as they grew closer over the years in war and understood that they were in love, the games then grew more intimate. Castiel allowing himself to be putty in Dean's hands was his way of showing the depth of his perfect trust.

"To the bed," Dean said, adopting the tone of authority. "On your hands and knees. You don't come until I say so."

"Yes, sir." Still, a hint of defiance glittered in his blue eyes. He rose and shed his uniform, leaving him as naked and perfectly hard as Dean. Their bodies understood what was to come without being told.

Dean watched Castiel climb onto the bed facing the footboard. It was lower than the headboard, suggesting he remembered how he'd need something to hold onto, and it also prevented the headboard from banging so hard on the wall. Those little reminders of their clandestine affair briefly crossed Dean's mind but he pushed them aside upon seeing Castiel on all fours with quite an inviting cock pointing up his belly.

The major licked his lips like facing a banquet. He scooted onto the bed, kneeling before Castiel's face. "Better get me good and wet, General," he mumbled with his hand cuffed around the back of Castiel's neck.

Tonguing Dean's cock from head to base, Castiel's lapping took on an eager pace. Dean shudder as his hips instinctively rolled with the rhythm. He chewed his lip hard and moaned darkly, nearly satisfied to let himself be finished off right there. The air turned cool on his newly wet flesh, which ignited a fresh wave of aching arousal. Fingers curled into Castiel's dark hair and he got lost in the addictive sensation of his tongue until his full lips sank around his head, swallowing him down. Dean teased himself for a few moments of bliss. Filthy mumbled encouragements trickled from his lips as his hips jerked, steadily fucking Castiel's mouth.

"That's enough," he hissed just on the edges of his balls beginning to tighten and his gut coiling up with fire.

Not yet. Not that way. Not so soon.

But as he looked at Castiel's damp hair trying to curl at the ends and his lips swollen and pink, he realized it wasn't control that he desired. Everything in his life required decisions made for thousands of soldiers whose lives hung in the balance. The one place where he didn't have to be in charge was in the bedroom with Castiel. That let him experience every tingling, aching, spiraling sensation without the pressure of planning the next moment. He stared at his lover with newfound clarity and pulled him upward by the jaw into a penetrating kiss.

"What I want," he whispered, "is to feel alive with you. Make me know sensation from my toes to my scalp."

Blinking at first, understanding slowly registered in Castiel's eyes. He knew what Dean meant and what he did by giving control back to him. It was not received as an insult or ungratefulness. On the contrary, Castiel understood him in ways that no one else did. He understood the pressures they faced in that war and how heavily death weighed on their minds. Levity in the soul came, for them, through physical sensation and Dean trusted that man enough to hand over control of his body. The general didn't take the responsibility lightly, nor did he greet it like a chore.

He accepted the reins of control again with a possessive kiss. "I believe I'm in your spot then. On your hands and knees. Now."

The sense of obedience fell over Dean like a welcome blanket as the men shifted on the bed until the display of dominance and submission appeared in their positions. Dean quieted his mind as he was required to do in their games, but Castiel's palm flattened on the middle of his back. A gush of strength and wind shoved Dean onto the bed, flattened onto his belly. Before he could question it, though, his hips responded to the sudden contact between his sensitive cock and the rough fabric threads of the rebel blanket. He groaned in a wave and rolled his hip into the mattress seeking deeper friction.

The room blurred as Castiel bent over him, his wide palm planted over Dean's shoulder. "Rutting on anything you can get like a common animal, hm?" His breath warmed Dean's ear. As he spoke, his other hand skimmed the curve of Dean's ass and then gave the tender skin a pop. "Stop that."

He'd never struck Dean before, not even in anger. It never occurred to either of them to add spanking into their games but then again Castiel always did look for new things to keep their love life exciting and lively. At first Dean didn't know how he felt about the pop on his ass. It stung. But it stunned him to know that sting melted into pleasure as the sensation sank into the meat of his backside. Realization edged in on his primitive awareness. Castiel gave him pure sensation with that pop. He suddenly felt truly alive.

Vague awareness behind him rose in his senses. A glass bottle from the nightstand told him that Castiel rolled out a measure of cooking oil between his palms. He'd gotten it from the Italian neighborhoods back home in New York City. They used it for cooking. Men like Dean and Castiel used it to intensify their pleasure. They didn't use it often since they were so far from Castiel's home, alluding to his intentions.

Hands dug into Dean's thighs, pulling them apart. He felt exposed, splayed open and waiting for Castiel to have his way. Weight settled over him again as warm breath puffed over his ear and slick fingers slid down the cleft of his ass. Dean arched into that hand with a sharp breath as Castiel circled his opening and pressed one of his fingers into him. Radiating pleasure awoke each of Dean's limbs, pulling a low moan from his throat. Steadily, Castiel's skilled fingers stretched and slicked Dean's hole and made it ready to receive him. Occasionally his long fingertip brushed something within that jolted Dean nearly into leaping off the bed.

"If you wait much longer, I'm gonna go insane," Dean breathed.

"Quiet." The sudden absence of Castiel's fingers left Dean's body feeling hollow until a renewed pop stung the untouched side of his ass.

Dean moaned. He couldn't believe it. Getting spanked made him moan like a whore.

Making love arrived in slow lazy waves rather than quick imprecise thrusts. Castiel's weight atop Dean added to the intimacy as they joined and rolled together in a single rhythm easily found from years of being together. A hand gripped Dean by the hip while the other slid along his arm and laced through his fingers. Impatience soon brought Dean's ass up, grinding harder into the man plunging into him. He needed more. More friction, more filling, more aggression. He needed to burst all over the bed while his body rocked through the raw tremors.

The same impatience soon found Castiel. His hips began snapping against Dean until he grabbed the footboard to meet those thrusts with equal vigor. Panting and raw moaning poured from Castiel's throat just the same as it did from Dean's throat, which filled the room. Time blurred before Dean's eyes until he couldn't see a thing. He only felt the building explosion.

"I'm gonna--"

"--No, Dean."

"I have to!"

"Not until I give you leave!" The words squeezed out of ground teeth in Castiel's mouth. He wasn't far behind.

But Dean, he was so close that his toes wriggled with the strain of holding it back. He couldn't. Not until he was allowed. The sharp tingle at the base of his body just beneath his balls wound through his body and he edged so close that his chest restricted with the effort. He moaned through a gaping mouth at the same high, tense pitch that Castiel moaned behind him. Just a few more of those hard, violent thrusts and....

"I said no!"

A crack echoed through the room. The delay, the disconnect of Dean's senses finally caught up and the sting of a light warning pop before multiplied into the burn of punishment. A handprint scorched into Dean's ass but as much as it hurt, it worked loose a darker sense of pleasure that he hadn't yet experienced. Much to Castiel's credit, however, the delicious burn jerked Dean out of the moment long enough to delay his impending climax. The general always got what he wanted after all.

In Castiel's last moments of clarity, his moans fell silent as if his body imploded with the earthquake of his release. Skin slapping skin became the only sound in the room for the longest moment. Abruptly he swirled his pelvis into Dean's ass and let out a gravelly cry punctuating the explosion of pent up sensation.

As he pulled out of Dean, the void and emptiness tested the limits of his patience. Just as quickly, Castiel flipped Dean on his back and they regarded each other in their raw state, naked and exposed inwardly to each other.

"Such a good boy," Castiel murmured against his lips as he bent over him. "Such self-control. I do love you, Dean."

If Dean meant to return the sentiment, Castiel swallowed it down in his kiss. Long fingers wrapped tightly around Dean's cock and he instantly arched off the bed toward Castiel. He wasn't reprimanded or ordered to lie still. The moment belonged to him after obeying so thoroughly despite his own needs. From base to slick head, Castiel's fist fucked Dean in quick order at just the right pace, touching just the right nerves. He writhed on the bed and closed his eyes, languishing in the attention. Where he'd forced himself not to come on Castiel's orders before, he desperately wanted to hold onto that moment of effort solely focused on his body. The game melted away into two people who thoroughly loved each other and worshipped in the physical sensations shared between them.

Castiel bent and kissed Dean's collarbones as he stroked his lover into a state of broken nerves. He tossed his head back, moaning and thrusting against that fist, feeling the build rise again. His spine tingled. Hair rose on his arms and neck. Then, like the crack of Castiel's hand on his backside, the orgasm cracked his body wide open and he cried out from a hoarse throat. He swore he heard Castiel growl his own pleasure as of looking over a spread of delicious food. Spurts of white stickiness coveted Dean's stomach and chest, as well as Castiel's hand. In the final tremors, his voice turned high and breathy as he chanted his lover's name.

Collapsed together on the bed in the aftermath, it took time for Dean to realize how they'd destroyed the room. A lazy rolling laugh left his body at the sight of it. Castiel, lying on his back beside Dean, stared at the ceiling with a quietly pleased, sated expression.

"What's funny?" he asked sleepily.

"I can't believe nobody's figured us out yet," Dean replied. "We're not exactly quiet when we get to shack up in places like this, which, by the way, looks pretty well destroyed now."

"Maybe they do know about us." The theory slipped out of his mouth so easily but the danger wound up in his words frightened Dean.

"Don't say that," he whispered.

"Soldiers never betray each other. I truly believe we could walk outside holding hands and, while they wouldn't like it, I'm sure, we are all fighting for the same cause and that creates a code of honor. We wouldn't be betrayed."

"Can I put on my drawers first?"

"What?"

"Well, if we're taking an afternoon stroll holding hands in front of the entire brigade, I think I'd like to at least wear my underclothes." He glanced over at Castiel with a playful grin. "I mean, you're free to walk around naked if you like. The other men might envy your weapon form there though."

"Hmm, indeed," replied Castiel with a grin.

*****

Duty to the brigade slipped deeper and deeper into Dean and Castiel's lives in the following days. It always progressed that way. Their games never passed into frequent routine because, as Castiel reasoned, they ought to miss each other between those delectable encounters. In the early months back when they were fighting in Louisiana, Dean wanted Castiel every night, every day, and for the occasional roadside snack.

Keeping the men fed there in North Carolina led Dean further and further away from that wicked afternoon. Days passed without any action and that led the men to spread gossip about Lincoln and Davis entering into peace talks. Rumors like that had gone around every few months for as long as Dean could remember. He didn't give them much attention, instead choosing to focus on his job.

"Major Winchester, I require the payroll records," said Castiel, deep into his work.

The army tent stood open at both ends for a breeze. It was double the size of other tents for the average soldier but Castiel, a rising general, carried more personal baggage and supplies. Dean rose from his portable desk on the opposite tent wall and rummaged through the portfolios stashed in a traveling crate.

"Sir," he said as he handed him the requested paperwork.

"Thank you, Major. You're dismissed. Go and get yourself some grub."

With a nod, Dean grabbed his holster off the cot peg on the tent post and he jammed a kepi on his head. Castiel anticipated his hunger, it seemed, and sent him on his way. Looking after his needs in that detached way was the best he could do to show affection without arousing suspicion. They led two completely separate lives that often left Dean frustrated if he let himself think about the way society treated them too much.

Dean straightened his waistcoat as he strolled through camp, not bothering to put on his frock coat. There were no ladies in camp and that afforded the men a certain amount of freedom.

Dirt paths separated neatly lined white tents and soldiers gathered around large communal fires. Some of them cooked. Most of them spoke in hushed conversation, taking advantage of the lull between fighting. Dean made his way down the hill path to the mess tent where a man could get food from a regimental cook rather than what they carried in their packs. His nose picked up the aroma of burning wood and cooking bacon. They must have struck a wealthy vein of pigs on some nearby farm. He hadn't tasted fresh pork in many weeks, relying only on preserved salt pork instead, and the savory aroma had his stomach rumbling.

At the bend in the path, rumbling in Dean's stomach got overpowered by rumbling in the distance. He turned toward the noise and spotted a messenger on horseback galloping toward camp. Sweat ran down the horse's flanks, telling Dean the animal had been pushed to the brink for miles. Something serious was happening. Dean abandoned his hunt for fresh pork and followed the horseman.

"It's over! Lee surrendered! The war in Virginia is over!" bellowed the messenger. He waved his hat in wide circles over his head.

Disbelieving soldiers climbed to their feet and exchanged confused looks. Some of them murmured questions to each other as the rider passed through camp announcing the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia. Four years of slaughter and spilled blood amounted to that day, and most of them couldn't wrap their minds around the news.

Dean found himself across the dirt road from General Novak's tent. The general stood outside of it, watching the rider go by and the men under his charge take in the announcement. Even Castiel's expression turned as blank as the soldiers he commanded.

It was over.

They were all going home soon.

General Novak and Major Winchester met eyes across the dirt road. They stared at one another as it settled into their minds. The lovers were finally free from war.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this series features quite a lot of sex, this chapter is about building the plot.

No one told soldiers what to do with themselves once a war ended. Going home immediately wasn't in the cards for them either since the rebel cities required federal occupation until governments were restored.

Dean loathed being an occupying soldier without a clearly defined enemy to fight. It meant being stationed in South Carolina, where the war began, and where widows and orphans spat upon the ground where he walked. A conquered people displayed their resistance to Yankee occupation whenever they could in every manner they could, short of being arrested. Dean had no intention of throwing women and children into prison after everything the country endured--and he had always viewed it as one unified country. There were no men left in the conquered South and the ones that survived the war trickled home in broken heaps of skin and bones. It was up to the women to rebuild society.

"I got us a place to set up quarters for now," Dean announced over the crackling campfire.

Castiel lifted a finger to his lips. "Don't want the men hearing you taking such liberties in the way you speak to me," he explained quietly.

With a quick glance around camp, he nodded, comfortable that no one heard the evidence of a personal relationship between an aide-de-camp and a commanding officer. Crinkling paper drew Dean's attention back to the officer at his side, though he made no show of his curiosity. Worry lines creased the edges of Castiel's light and not even the darkness of night hid his distress. Dean knew better than to ask questions among other soldiers. Even so, the strain tightening his lover's face begged for attention.

Dean cleared his throat and leaned toward the fire, forearms resting on his knees. He cautiously glanced over at the letter. The angle wasn't great and Castiel's clenched hand blocked a good view of the handwriting. An effort at being casual had Dean rubbing his eyes as if exhaustion took hold but he instead leaned a bit more and eyed the tight, slanted scrawl, finally spotting a name. Meg. The letter was from Castiel's wife. A flush is anxiety and jealousy battled it out through Dean's gut until he couldn't tell if he needed to run to the woods with the trots or lean over and retch into the dirt. Why would she be sending him letters? Castiel had promised their marriage was over, that he belonged to Dean alone, and they were headed to New York for a new life together.

For his part, Castiel seemed oblivious to Dean's anxiety as he remained so absorbed in his own. He carefully folded the letter back into its envelope and stowed it away in his frock coat pocket. Staring into the flames licking and curling into the night air didn't invite him to explain himself but allowed him a silent moment of anxious reflection.

"What does she want?" Dean whispered for Castiel's perception only, knowing full well that he gave himself away for a common spy.

Not a word passed Castiel's lips. He didn't even look at Dean or grunt to acknowledge his presence. Strong, elegant fingers combed down the lines framing his mouth and he turned over things in his mind that Dean could only guess at, which fed the flames of fear.

Uncertainty was one thing but being ignored was quite another. Dean scoffed, suddenly frustrated to the point of anger, and leaped from the folding chair. It toppled backwards in the grass but he didn't stop to right it again. He couldn't have it out with Castiel in the middle of camp where the entire regiment would find out about them in a matter of seconds, so he took off instead. If Castiel didn't want to talk, then fine. Dean wasn't going to force his confidences.

He stalked across the field toward the dirt road soldiers fashioned the week before through camp. It ended long before Dean reached the temporary pasture divided between livestock and horseflesh for the regiment. The farther he went from camp, the more night swallowed him but it didn't bother him in the slightest, deciding it was better not to be seen in his agitated condition. Once, perhaps twice, he looked back over his shoulder to see if Castiel followed him, but only disappointment burned in the empty void with campfires dotting the distance. He would never admit the disappointment, of course, but part of him wanted Castiel to run after him in a grand romantic gesture. Instead, he doubted the good general even noticed his abrupt departure. Why would he notice a clandestine lover with a horribly demanding, unstable wife somewhere up north?

Dean turned back to the pasture and whistled into the emptiness. Ghostly swishes flicked and caught what minescule light carried over the field. A horse lumbered by and sniffed curiously in Dean's direction but continued on when he didn't recognize his owner. Shadows melted and took shape moments later, drawing Baby toward him. The familiar black horse wandered close enough for Dean to reach out and rub her nose.

"Hey, Baby," murmured Dean. "These other horses treating you all right?" He drew nearer and rubbed Baby's neck as she snuffled about his shoulder. "We'll have a ride in the morning, hm? Let you have your head and show off for these other horses. Found any good mares in season yet?" A lowly sigh escaped his mouth as he leaned against his trusted horse, the companion he had even before Castiel ever came along. She whinnied over his shoulder, sensing something amiss with her master. "Sleep tight, girl."

With a last rub of Baby's neck, Dean rejoined the road and walked west toward the house he'd secured as General Novak's headquarters.

*****

Birds sang in a distant, echoing way, like listening through a long metal tube. Consciousness edged in on Dean's blissfully empty sleep but he fought it and jammed his head under the pillow. Muted darkness engulfed him but the golden rays of sunlight bled under the edges of his pillow, making him groan and squeeze his eyes tighter shut. He squirmed, spreading out on his stomach. Stretching over the mattress, his hand bumped into an immovable object, warm and fleshy, yet not at all yielding to his presence.

There it was. Consciousness pried his eyes open and he remembered the mattress stirring sometime around four in the morning when Castiel came to bed. He'd muttered something about not being seen entering Dean's room and to go back to sleep. Dean didn't argue. Once he was asleep, nothing short of a cyclone could wake him--not even a lover keeping secrets about his estranged wife.

Dean slid out from under his pillow and looked at Castiel through one sleepy eye. A general of the Army of the Potomac lay there on his back, nude, and staring at the ceiling. Had he slept at all?

"You feel like telling me what's going on yet?" Dean probed a bit more testily than he'd planned.

The officer said nothing for a long moment. Blinking, he rubbed his eyes and effectively shut out Dean as far as he was concerned. He rolled his eyes and huffed. When that failed to elicit a response too, he muttered an oath under his breath and slapped the pillow as he pushed himself up onto his knees. One foot reached for the floor, and then Castiel decided to speak.

"She's demanding money," he announced darkly.

"Your wife?"

"Yes. She knows what kind of man I am," he said as if it was the root of his personal evil. "I left a matchbook in my chest of drawers. It was from Harvelle's, which is a Molly house near Delmonico's. She got curious and actually went to Harvelle's, it seems, but she didn't have the courage to go inside after seeing to men engaged in a rather vigorous embrace in the alley next door. So...." Castiel sighed and spread his hands with a shrug into his pillows. "Because of my carelessness, my wife now knows I was never capable of wanting her and she's out for my blood now."

"Oh, damn it," breathed Dean, burying his face in his hands.

They immersed in tortured silence knowing full well what would happen to Castiel if his estranged wife turned him in to the authorities. While Dean didn't feel bad about his anger at being shut out, he understood better what drove Castiel into silence. Men of their variety who had no use for women lived in constant danger of being arrested on charges of sodomy.

"She can't do anything," blurted Dean suddenly.

Castiel's brows knitted low on his forehead. "Why not?"

"A matchbook doesn't prove anything. She has to catch you in the company of another man in order to bring charges against you, otherwise her case would be no better than gossip in court."

The possibilities rolled around Castiel's mind. He gazed off to the side at nothing for a moment. "Supposing she knows that, we have to assume she'll have me followed until she has her proof." Eyes turned up to Dean and almost peered into him with a wordless apologetic tone. "It's only going to be a matter of time before she sees us on the streets together or discovers where I've rented our rooms for when we go home."

"My brother's gonna have rooms in the area, right?"

Castiel nodded.

"Then I'll keep my address with Sammy until she gets frustrated and gives up on raking you over the coals," Dean decided, although the thought of not living with Castiel wounded him more than he cared to admit. "She can't be obsessed forever."

"I think she might," replied Castiel sadly. "I don't wish to give you up."

"You won't. Sammy and I already had our things shipped to New York. He supports us, but you know, he's always been the liberal free love sort and he's looking forward to moving in those bohemian kinds of circles."

The corner of Castiel's mouth turned up, which Dean took as a hopeful sign, but he slipped into brooding again in seconds. "Keeping you away doesn't resolve the problem that she's demanding more money from me. I'm still supporting her needs and that won't change. It's my duty. Still, she uses her newly discovered power over me to improve her status."

"How much money are we talking?" Dean asked soberly.

Blue eyes met his without wavering in their serious perception of the blackmail situation. "A lump sum of ten thousand dollars."

"Ten thousand!"

Castiel lunged forward and grabbed Dean's wrist, hissing: "Shh! Do you want everybody to know we're in here together?"

The new wild light in Castiel's eyes stopped Dean short and they froze, eyeing each other in an unspoken standoff. Dean hadn't seen that unguarded fear in Castiel's eyes before--not even in the saddle directing men at war--but the possibility that someone might find them in bed together had him utterly unnerved. Meg Novak had gotten into his head and crawled under his skin with her little threatening letter even if they both knew she had no direct proof yet. Part of Dean, in that split second, fantasized about strangling her until the reasonable voice in his head reminded him that only barbarians hurt women. Still, she poisoned Castiel's mind with the fear of public humiliation and prison, and for that, she'd have to pay.

Castiel appeared to realize he'd lost his cool reserve for a moment. His eyes lowered and he released Dean's wrist with a silent, unspoken apology blended with personal shame. He scrubbed tense fingers over his eyes, making Dean reach out for a gentle touch on his cheek. The usual light scruff seemed neglected and had grown into the beginnings of an uneven beard.

"Obviously we don't have ten thousand dollars. That's years of army pay, even for a general. We'll just have to find another way to bring her to heel," offered Dean in his best soothing tone.

"It's not your responsibility," Castiel muttered behind his hand.

"The hell it isn't," argued Dean. "We decided over a year ago to have a life together. Whatever happens to you happens to me."

The locked door vibrated with knocking, which in Castiel's overwrought condition, made him jump. Dean swiveled around and waited for the offending interruption to burst into the room and witness two men nude in bed together. His heart thundered in his rib cage once he realized the only way out of the room for him was through that very door.

"Yes?" barked Castiel, simultaneously raising his fingers to Dean's lips to keep him silent.

"Sir," said Anderson through the door, "you're needed in the drawing room. We've converted it to an office to receive the rebels--I mean the refugee families seeking federal aid. The line is around the block already."

"Of course." Castiel looked like he'd forgotten his duties altogether. "I shall attend to the people in ten minutes. Bring the women and children to the front of the line. It looks to be hot today and it won't bode well for the locals to hear tales of unfortunate women fainting while waiting for ration slips."

"Yes, sir." Boots fell on the floorboards and receded toward the stairs.

Once certain that they were alone again, Dean tipped his chin toward the window. "I'm gonna have to shimmy down to the garden."

"What?" Castiel's head whipped around, giving the window a skeptical eye.

Hopping out of bed, Dean flashed a confident smile. "Nobody will see me. Don't worry. Remember I was a scout before you plucked me out of obscurity and had me promoted to this prestigious position." Still smiling in an effort to lighten Castiel's mood, he leaned over the bed and they shared a kiss. He hoped his lighthearted approach to nearly being caught together put Castiel's nerves at ease. "We'll be fine," he whispered. "I always talk my way out of any trouble. Get down to those poor starving women. Make them swoon with your smile. I'll casually stroll in to help soon."

"It's easy to believe in you," murmured Castiel distantly.

Dean smiled. "Then look after the hungry masses and I'll look after you."

*****

By the time Dean put on his uniform and found a moment where he wouldn't be seen wriggling down from the second floor bedchamber window around the back of the house, people had clustered around the front and stretched as far as he could discern. He took the long way around, stopping in the outhouse, and nobody seemed the wiser as he weaved his way around people standing in tight clumps on the front porch. The house had belonged to a family that vacated the prior year, headed to either North Carolina or Virginia, depending on which town gossip one believed.

The drawing room proved far more crowded than the porch as Dean pushed his way inside. He couldn't see Castiel but soon spotted Anderson tilted over what he estimated to be a desk in the far corner of the room. There, Castiel sat taking oaths to the Union in exchange for food and supplies for needy Southern families.

Sliding in discreetly behind the desk too, Dean slapped Anderson on the shoulder. "Go on and get some grub. I'll take over."

"Thanks." Anderson didn't even bother arguing or trying to stay longer to fulfill the duty of assisting Castiel, but instead, made his escape with a few sparse instructions. "The general will need more forms soon. They're stored in the dining room in separate piles by function. Don't ruin my organization, Winchester."

"Of course not." Still, Dean didn't let the attitude pass without a glaring eye.

For the time being, Dean assumed an at ease posture, standing over Castiel's shoulder with his boots separated and his hands clasped behind his back. The mask of public duty to his commanding general fell over his features, smoothing his countenance into a far more relaxed expression than he felt. Once Castiel went to attend to his duties, it left Dean with nothing but his own thoughts and anxieties. Midway down the side of the house, he'd made the decision that he needed to read the deplorable letter for himself.

Movement caught his eye and he glanced down at Castiel's back, an arm stretching over the desk to hand an elderly woman her pass to leave the state. She had family in West Virginia, which, she gamely pointed out, was federal territory and it would be better for someone as old and sick as her. Castiel readily agreed and scribbled out the pass, of course, after she swore her oath to the Union. Though tenderhearted and charitable toward civilians, Castiel was nonetheless rather wise about when and how to apply charity. Supplies were limited as it was and he had no intention of helping people who refused to help themselves by taking the oath.

"Good morning, ma'am," Castiel said to the next woman in line.

She wore a brown homespun dress that looked like it had been turned out and refurbished a few times. Dean estimated her age to be close to his, as evident by two ragged small children clinging to her skirts, but living in a defeated country didn't do much for her grace or appearance.

"Good morning, General Novak." Prim hands clasped at her waist suggested her presence there was the very last thing she wanted. She peered down her nose at him and completely ignored Dean standing silently over his shoulder.

Castiel wasted no time. "Are you prepared to take the oath, Mrs.....?"

"Mrs. Dove," she replied. "Mrs. Bernard Dove of Darlington."

Nodding, Castiel shuffled through his lists until he located the registered citizens of Darlington, near Florence, as Dean recalled. His own countrymen rotted there in a prison camp and it took everything he had not to scowl at the woman.

"General, I'm prepared to take the oath for the good of my hungry youngins but there are pressin' things that ought to be said." Her chin tipped up as if it was a struggle minute by minute to preserve her dignity in the face of conquering troops. "Sir, your men absconded with my chickens and my milk cow not six months ago and I've never been repaid."

"Madam," interrupted Castiel, "my men and I were not here six months ago. You speak of units which have nothing to do with our outfit."

"All you Yankees are the same," she growled before she could stop herself.

Dean couldn't see Castiel's face standing behind him, but he imagined the sharp expression of a silent and effective warning by the incline of his head. The woman's lips pursed hard and her skin blanched under the pressure of keeping her spitting venom at bay. Her children turned their little faces up to her like flowers turning toward the sun, each clutching a fistful of her skirt. The pair of them--Castiel and Mrs. Dove--sizing each other up in a battle to see who might crack first if they continued to spar.

"Major Winchester."

"Sir?"

"Bring me the promissory reimbursement form."

"Yes, sir."

Ducking around the back of Castiel's chair, Dean hadn't the vaguest idea what a promissory reimbursement form was but he thought perhaps it was a bit of theater to keep the lady pacified. Such situations were touchy. As the occupying force in central South Carolina, those officers in charge had to win the trust of the hostile populace while maintaining law and order. A woman as outspoken and angry as Mrs. Dove could easily spread poison through the county and General Novak would lose his authority. The last thing he desired was forcing more bloodshed to restore order among the rebel counties. The war was over, after all. It was simply murder after that.

Dean located a blank sheet of paper, an inkwell, and a pen from Anderson's meticulous organizational system. He didn't bother to take a seat as he wrote out a form based on the others that would promise Mrs. Dove repayment for her confiscated fowl and livestock. He wondered just how Castiel planned to honor a form that didn't technically exist yet, though there was talk in the government of making a better effort to stabilize the Southern economy now that they were part of the Union again. Perhaps Castiel was gambling on it.

"Sir," said Dean, ducking into the drawing room again. He placed the doctored form on the desk and resumed his position over Castiel's shoulder.

"Thank you, Major," Castiel replied. "As I was saying, Mrs. Dove, if you take the oath and set a good example for your precious children now observing you, then I shall be perfectly obliged to give you this promissory note for your lost property as well as ration slips to feed your young family. Now remember, the government is still organizing again and this may take time." He paused as if making sure other refugees crowding his makeshift office were listening too. "We're no longer enemies, Mrs. Dove. My job here is to assist you and your neighbors in reintegrating into American society, not punish you. It requires patience and effort on all sides. Do you not agree?"

As Dean observed Mrs. Dove reluctantly raise her hand and repeat the oath of allegiance after Castiel's direction, an idea materialized in his mind. It seemed foggy at first--something edging around his thoughts about mimicking this very plan to pacify the woman.

Perhaps they could pacify the awful Mrs. Novak by similar means of trickery.


End file.
